No More Fantasies
by rogue empress
Summary: What happened after Erik escaped from the mob? I wrote this because I was sick of everyone saying that Christine should have chosen Erik. let me know if i should keep going.
1. Default Chapter

Summary: This is my sequal to the Phantom, starting directly after the movie and the musical ends. I think it may be a one shot, but i'm not sure yet. I decided to write this because i was sick of all of the "Christine should have gone with Erik" crap. If you think that that would have been a healthy relationship - or worse - that what Erik felt for Christine was actually love, you should be shot. Be realistic here, people. Also, this is a rough draft, so any criticism is very helpful.

The Phantom of the Opera and its characters do not belong to me. However, I do maintain all parental and legal rights to the woman called Joelle.

* * *

Erik tore through the tunnel in hysterics as he ran from his death. It was ironic, really. All the nights he had lied awake, begging to be slaughtered in the darkness, he half hated himself for acting a coward now, when there was nothing left to live for, but his animal instinct drove his feet to pound the damp stone harder, faster as he escaped from the prison that was his home. Behind him he heard a hundred voices taunting, searching, plundering his home, breaking his belongings, mashing the keys on his organ - raping her delicate surface with their rough hands. It was enough that he no longer had Christine, and now they had killed what he considered to be his daughter - what was left of her would be sold to a school where clumsy little children would spend hours playing chopsticks on her. She was built for writing operas, and symphonies, and true works of art. And now, like her father, she was nothing but a joke. 

The tunnel spit him out in an alley way outside of the opera house. It had rained that afternoon and the cobblestone streets gave off a cruel reflection, making it so that Erik could not escape without looking his demon in the eye every step of the way. He told himself he didn't care. But the hate and the rage only built up in him more as he ran on, winding down dark alleys and forgotten streets. Only the homeless saw him pass, and most of them were too drunk to notice anything peculiar about him. Still, he breathed an internal sigh of relief when he turned a corner to an alleyway that was truly deserted. Not even a rat or dog wandered down it. Running just as fast as before, he headed down it, not remembering anymore where exactly he was going. Montmartre, maybe, where the gypsies had kept him when they weren't travelling. All those years of desperately needing to get out of the village, and he felt like he belonged there now. Maybe he could get a job as someone who mediates between satan and man. And then he really would belong in Montmartre - with the whores.

Suddenly there were fingers on his right arm, and they wrenched him to a stop. He was going so hard that his left side kept moving forward when his feet stopped in shock, and he swung in a complete circle, his shoes sliding on the damp pavement.

Infuriated, Erik tore his arm away and stared into the shadow that had yet to reveal his trapper with all the rage in his veins. He knew what he would say when the burly man stepped forward. He'd say, "kill me, please - put me out of my misery." It was on the tip of his tongue, and he took a breath to speak it as the figure stepped forward.

"You can not run forever." She said to him plainly, looking him directly in the eye as though he looked like every one else.

Erik did not know how to react. A woman? A woman had stopped a man of his height and strength in a full out run - just grabbed him and stood there like a wall. His first instinct was to hope it was Christine (as irrational as that was),but as he looked at the girl in front of him, he saw she was very different.

Her dark brown hair was merely wavy, and not half as long as Christine's. The moonlight set off the whites of her eyes, making them glow around her hazel irises. She was taller than Christine by a great deal, though still shorter than Erik. Her skin was dirty and rough - so unlike the immaculate radiating satin that covered his former pupil. The most striking difference, though, was her complete confidence and hardness as she stood there waiting for him to reply.

"Who the hell are you - some crack whore from the village? Is this how you start a proposition? I have things to do." And with that he turned from her and began to jog away.

"Erik." She said.

He stopped. Her voice was deep and soft, and it affected him like a tranquilizer. As he turned around and met her face again, he was trying hard to not stand there agape at her power. He swallowed. "How did you know my name?"

"I spent my childhood in a cage as well, mon ami." She gave him a deep searching look for an instant as Erik stared at her in shock. "It is good if you don't remember. I won't remind you, and we'll just start over as new acquaintances."

The Phantom staggered as he finally recognized the face in front of him. "No-" he gasped, "it - it can't be-" fresh tears fell down his cheeks. The girl walked up to him nurturingly, taking hold of his forearm to comfort him. "Joelle?"

"Oui, bebe." She reached up and wiped his tears, smiling at him as though he were being silly. "Come now, calm down. It will be light soon, and you should go home before the people start stirring in the streets, since I know you will not face them without your mask."

"I have no home but Hell!" Erik shouted, the night's occurrences flooding back to him. "She betrayed me, Joelle! She took my music and my love when she abandoned me. And now I have nothing to fill my thoughts but nightmares. Damn the people - let them see! Maybe they'll stone me to death in the street."

"Shh. Shh. Don't talk that way. You cant have expected her to love you back, Erik."

"What?"

"I've been watching you ever since I escaped ten years ago. Erik, you don't know how to give the love you're asking from others. It's a two-way street. And besides that, how can you ask her to love and accept something you so adamantly hate and abhor?"

"I can't believe this is coming from you."

"Listen to me, Erik. The kind of love you were asking of Christine was true, unselfish, and uninhibited. And yet your feelings for her were very limited, jealous, and full of stipulations. Did you really think that dismembering her fiancé in front of her would suddenly make her fall desperately in love with you?"

"You know nothing of what you speak! Go back into the shadow and just let me die!"

Joelle did not let up. "I know more than you do, Erik. I know you. I understand you. That is why I know if I don't say this to you, it will never enter a single thought in your head. During this whole ordeal, did you ever once consider Christine's feelings? Did it ever occur to you that it would _hurt_ her? It surprises me that a man of your intelligence wouldn't have realized he was treating one of the only people who ever showed him kindness with the same regard that the gypsies treated him as a child. The only difference is that you beat her with your words and actions instead of a cane when she did not obey. And if you ask me, I don't know which is worse."

Joelle watched him as he came at her threateningly, and then stopped. His face twisted from enraged to shocked and finally to remorse. Erik felt his legs go numb and then his knees slammed into the street. "I am a monster." He whispered to himself. He spotted a hunk of broken glass in the gutter. The opportunity to slit his throat lifted his hopes, and he lunged for it. Joelle intercepted his returning blow, sliding onto her knees and barring his forearm with both hands. They struggled for a few minutes before Joelle knocked the side of her fist into a spot on the side of his forearm, making his nerve endings scream and his muscles relax in shock. The glass cracked in half as it fell to the street. Joelle very quickly picked up the peices and threw them behind her so that he couldn't get to them.

Infuriated, Erik delivered the girl a hard left hook, sending her head sharply to one side. She recovered almost instantly, showing no sign of pain or surprise of any kind in her eyes. Her lip bled down the side of her chin, but she didn't seem to notice. He tried to hit her again, but this time she caught his arm with a block, her eyes never moving from his. Erik let out a scream of anger and desolation, and Joelle suddenly had her arms around his neck, pulling his head into her chest and covering it protectively with her arms. He wept bitterly into the crook of her arm, soon throwing his own arms around her middle and hanging on for dear life.

Joelle petted and rocked him as he cried, murmuring soft consolations in french. Slowly, he stopped shaking. His cries became softer and softer, and finally his body seemed to go limp and his mind shut down with exhaustion. Tears fell slowly down his cheeks as he stared blankly into the street, now completely silent, now completely still. Joelle squeezed him gently, not knowing whether he had fallen asleep or not, and sang to him in her misty alto voice.

"_The dawn is breaking..."_

Erik lifted his head and peered out down the alley. Soft golden sunlight was creeping down the streets and around the buildings. He blinked. The world had not ended.


	2. There's a Piano in the Closet

Note - I must say that I am still cautious of continuing this story. However, I have so many wacky ideas for these characters that I just had to give it a shot. I still like the idea of the first chapter standing alone, so maybe I'll split this up into two versions. Well, let me know what you think and whether you're disappointed in any way.

(The Pantom of the Opera and its characters do not belong to me, with the exception of Joelle, who is solely my creation.)

Meanwhile...

* * *

Joelle gathered him up off the street, steadied him, and then helped him brush the wrinkles out of his shirt. "Come," she said. "Your night of homelessness is done. You will live with me."

Erik tried to protest, but she cut him off before he had even finished inhaling to speak.

"This is not open for discussion."

He simply hung his head, as though he were going to nod, but got too tired to pick his head back up to complete it. Joelle led him into her tiny apartment, and as she closed and locked the door behind him, she gestured with her head to the bed that took up most of the room in the apartment. "Take your boots off and sleep for a while." She instructed.

"Aren't you tired?" He asked.

"No. But if I become drowsy, I'll go to sleep. It's no cause for concern."

Erik looked at the little bed and frowned. Wasn't that a little inappropriate? Or did she have other motives in mind that he had not picked up on? Joelle read his thoughts instantly.

"Don't worry," she said, a sarcastic light shining almost undetectable behind her eyes. " I sleep hanging upside down. Did you forget?"

It struck a nerve. He had forgotten. At one point on the street he realized that he knew this girl's name and face, and that she knew him very well... but he didn't know why. Even after she had told him she was once an exhibit in the freak show, in his memory he could not place her there. Now he could. They had called her Dracula's Daughter. And they had filed her teeth down to make her look more the part. He realized she had not smiled at him with her lips parted all night, and now he remembered why. However, that was all he could remember of her. He thought in his mind he'd just be quiet and play along until the rest came back to him. With a sigh and a pitiful glance to show he was sorry, Erik sat on the corner of the bed and began unlacing his boots. He was exhausted.

Joelle shrugged her forgiveness at him and began busying herself with straightening the room as he laid down, nervously, on the bed. He'd never been offered a place to stay before, and he wasn't sure about the etiquette that went along with sleeping in someone else's bed. Joelle noticed this, but did not let on that she did, as she knew how sensitive he was when it came to his pride. Instead, she nodded at him casually. "Go ahead and get under the sheets if you want, friend. They're clean." She said. "I just washed them this afternoon." She added, looking out the window, "or, yesterday, I guess." In truth she had never slept in the bed, and only washed the sheets periodically when she was nervous and ran out of things to clean. Yesterday had been a very anxiety-ridden day for her, knowing Erik's opera was going to be performed that evening, and knowing there was a good chance he'd either be shot, or hang himself. And even though she had successfully prevented either of those things from happening, and now had him safe in her little hide-out, her stomach was still hard and cold as steel and her blood still ran hot through her veins. She found it necessary now to arrange the books on her bookshelf by how many times she'd read them, instead of by genre or author. Luckily she did not flush or sweat or tremble at all, otherwise she would have been totally useless as a comforter to her friend.

Erik lifted his heavy body off the bed and turned the covers down, glancing up once at Joelle to make sure this was ok with her, and when she gave him a nonchalant half-grin, he climbed under the sheets and laid his head on the pillow. Within seconds, he was asleep.

Joelle sat herself down at her desk that was pushed up against the wall beside the bookshelf just inside the door, and began scribbling things in short hand, as the bookshelf was now very organized, and short of repainting the walls, there was nothing she could do to improve her little apartment. This was her form of meditation. She glanced over her shoulder to check on Erik, and found him sleeping peacefully, his eyes moving under his eyelids as he dreamt. Her nerves began to calm, and she went back to writing. Slowly her shorthand bled into printing, and then her printing stretched itself and began dancing, becoming beautifully sculpted calligraphy. Two complete sentences of nonsense in these beautiful letters had graced the page when Joelle was suddenly wrenched out of her path to euphoria by a loud, vicious cry.

She whirled around, her eyes narrowed in reflex after the initial shock. Erik, having thrown the covers off, was sprawled out awkwardly and panting on the bed. His brow narrowed and then flew up in surprise and pain, and his arms tugged ferociously against some invisible force. Joelle's expression changed from that of a wolf mother protecting it's pack to one devastated at the loss of a pup, as she fell from her chair and onto her knees at the bedside.

"Oh, God." She breathed. He was soaked in sweat. She knew this nightmare very well. For years, it had invaded her mind every night. Despite how she fought it, it kept returning. Sleep for her became like competing for control over her own psyche, the dream driving her out of her bed for weeks, which drove the dream to appear while she was awake. It had taken years of searching to finally be able to remember what had come after this terrifying event in her life...and his, too. Erik yelled out once more, and she pulled herself together and got to her feet, going and grabbing a towel from the bathroom. Still twisted with concern, Joelle sat herself on the bed next to him and began sopping the sweat off of his forehead, face, chest and neck. As she did this, she shushed and crooned him, humming a lullaby they both knew very well.

It was simple, in a minor key, and had just a twinge of hope in its distorted intervals. After a few moments, Erik began trying to relax, but the nightmare battled with him. At about the time Joelle would start to think he had gotten out of the dream, she saw him feel the crack of the cane once again. She kept humming, then got an idea and changed songs, thinking it would be better to bring in something new- something that had no connection to their childhoods. This seemed to work brilliantly, as by the time she had finished humming the first phrase, Erik had relaxed, now only stirring slightly and breathing heavy from exhaustion. Soon that abated as well, and he curled himself up and rubbed at his arm. Joelle continued the song, covering him up with the sheet and rubbing his arm for him, slowly. She couldn't help but smile widely at his action. Surely she would have been right to expect him to have outgrown this little bedtime comfort. She herself had nearly forgotten about it, but took up her role as arm-rubber before she had time to think about it. It had been forever, but she still knew all of his gestures, his likes and dislikes, his sounds. They came back to her so easily, it was like the ten years they had been apart had not existed. But then again, they had been so close during their time together it really was no wonder. She had been like his big sister, taking over the role of both friend and mother for him almost daily from the time she was sold to the carnival when she was six, til he had escaped when she was thirteen.

Deep down she was still bitter about that, despite how desperately she tried to let it go, and how convincingly she had told herself she'd succeeded at doing just that. Whenever the memory entered her mind she immediately set out to angrily ripping it to shreds and throwing the debris to the wind. She knew it should have never mattered, but it had hurt her so deeply at the time that it became hard to forget. And the shame that went along with knowing she should have cheered him on instead of cursing him like she had made matters that much worse. Seeing that he was resting peacefully, Joelle removed herself from the edge of the bed and returned to the table and her calligraphy.

She decided she might as well work while she waited for him to wake up, so she got out a scribbled wedding invitation, found the appropriate cards, and got to work copying the invitation out in beautiful letters. Erik did not stir for quite some time. There was a stack of about fifteen finished invitations in the corner of the desk when his eyelids slid open.

For a while, Erik lied there silently, regarding his friend. He had not really paid much attention to her features out on the street, and took them in now with some degree of interest. Her hair was a deep brown color, like chocolate and caramel, and was done up in a perfect french braid up-do. It was not hard to see the Transylvanian characteristics in her face. Her cheekbones were prominent, but not high, and her nose had a small bridge that ended in an almost triangular nose that pointed slightly downward. Her eyes were large, deep-set, and shaped like a cat's, but turned down so that the bottom lid was almost a straight line, and were a shining, foggy hazel color that seemed to look through things before looking at them. The brow above them was thin and long and perfectly straight, and sat down close to the eyes. Her mouth was small and pulled upward ever so slightly at the corners, complimenting her pointed chin, and when added to her low eyebrows and deep-set eyes, gave her the most malicious of expressions. Erik also noticed that Joelle was not exactly of an ideal weight. It wasn't that she was fat - no, that implied a sloppy physique and pampered lifestyle. Nothing about her was sloppy, and it was extremely obvious - judging by her dress and current living arrangements - that her lifestyle was quite the opposite of pampered. She was no ballerina, that's for sure - delicate little Christine would have been dwarfed by the woman - not only in height but in build as well. Joelle was ... thick. Her shape was still feminine, and firm, but was on a much greater scale than any of the women her age he had seen in the ballet corps or the chorus.

"Did you sleep well?" She asked suddenly, turning around to look at him when he did not answer.

"Yes, actually." Erik admitted, sitting up and smoothing his hair back. "How did you know I was awake?" He asked as he slid out of the bed and began to make it.

"You stopped breathing so loudly." Joelle said with a playful smirk.

Erik returned the smile, then asked, "How long did I sleep?"

"No more than a few hours. Good thing, too, I might not have gotten any work done if you hadn't."

He didn't tell her he couldn't remember the last time he had slept more than twenty minutes without waking up screaming and having no idea why. He picked up one of the invitations, read it, and said, "beautiful," before setting it down. "So you're a calligraphist." He stated with interest.

"Yes. After years of searching I finally found I had an obscure talent that I could make money at without compromising my reputation."

"Your reputation?"

"Yes, as a stuck up, overly clean widow of a well cultured high-society duke or something."

He became interested. "I don't mean to be disrespectful, but it's been so long since we saw each other... are you a widow? Or is that too personal?"

"That's not too personal at all, Erik," she answered gaily. "No, I am not a widow. But I do refuse to marry, so I guess in a sense my spouse has died - or at least the idea of him."

This seemed very sad to Erik. "What made you decide this?" He asked, frowning.

She sighed. "That is a little too personal," she said, whereupon Erik apologized, and then she changed the subject. Rising from her chair, she regarded him and said a little loudly, "Well, you'll be needing some clothes, won't you?"

Erik looked down at himself. Yes, apparently he did need some new clothes.

Joelle took out a scrap of paper and wrote down Erik's sizes as he dictated. "Did you want a new mask, too? Or are you giving that up?"

"I must have a new mask." Erik said, trying his hardest to conceal the emotion and eagerness in his voice.

"Very well." Joelle said, and wrote that down also. "I have a friend who can make you one custom fit, but we won't be able to see him until next week, as I will be very busy. We'll find a temporary substitute until then." Someone threw a pebble at the window. Joelle seemed not notice. She folded the list and put it in a pocket. "I'll go get these things now," she said as she put on a hat and matching gloves. "There's a piano in the closet," she said as she buttoned her last glove and opened the door. "I'll return as soon as I can."


	3. The Big Russian

Many thanks to my faithful reviewers. This chapter is extremely short, and for that I apologize. Hopefully the next chapter will not be so long in coming. So far the pace has been somewhat slow in this story, but it will, with any luck, pick up in the next few chapters. As always, please please review and tell me what you think, let me know whether I've botched anything, or say if something simply doesn't sit right with you.

In case anyone was wondering, I'm pretty certain Joelle's name is pronounced "Jo - EL."

In this chapter, I own everything but Erik and his past.

And now, if you'll remember, Joelle had left the apartment to go to market.

* * *

The grey dress she wore had black trimmings, and it flattered her at the same time as toning down her presence so that Joelle blended in very nicely and would have been difficult to find if you were looking for her. Joelle's substantial shoulders were square and her back was straight and proud as she stood at the store counter, but her head was humbled by a large grey hat with a black mesh veil that she had pulled down past her chin. 

"I'm afraid those are all too common measurements for a Parisian, madame," the old tailleur was explaining to her. "We've been overrun with customers, and I don't think we have much left that would fit him that's already made. But I'll have a look around in back and see what's come in."

"Thank you, monsieur." Whenever she spoke, she tilted her head downward, disguising the action as a polite sort of nod, and causing the large hat to completely obscure the view of her face.

The old man disappeared through a door and somebody bumped in to Joelle as she stood at the counter. She turned, insulted, to see who it was and give them a verbal lashing. She met a man who stood about 6'5", with large shoulders and wavy blond hair.

"Oh," she said, exasperated, swiping a gloved hand across his chest in a scolding sort of way. "Alexei. What are you doing here?" Joelle did not bother to tilt her head down when she spoke to this man, but she also did not look up to his face.

"Buying clothes." He said simply, his bold blue eyes dancing.

She sighed and turned back to the counter. "What do you want?"

"I have a job for you. I signaled you an hour ago in your apartment and you did not answer." He moved away from her about a pace, and pretended to be interested in picking out a tie.

"I told you I'm not going to be working for you for a while. At least for the first week. And what were you thinking signaling me in my apartment? What did you expect - for me to throw open the window and shout down my price with a guest right in the room? What would he have thought?"

"You have a guest." Alexei said, interest peaking in his voice. "So you did find him."

"Yes and thank God. He was suicidal."

"You're obsessed with the man, you know that."

She let out another exasperated sigh, and rolled her eyes. "Haven't we discussed this before? I'm not obsessed, I'm -

"You're worried." He continued for her, tiredly. "And why shouldn't you be? He was like your brother, after all." He knew the speech by heart.

"Don't mock me." Joelle said, turning over her shoulder and looking him straight in the eye, whereupon he threw up his hands to show he knew he had overstepped his boundary. But the jest was ever in his posture. "You're just jealous because you never had a family." She said, turning her attention back to the counter.

"Neither did you, Joelle." He retorted, trying to point out the ridiculousness of her thinking.

"Yes I did, Alexei. In him I did."

Alexei bowed his head and shifted away from her.

The tailleur returned with a shirt and a pant, and laid them on the counter. "It was all I could find," he said. "But you may leave the measurements with me and I should have at least part of a wardrobe done by next week."

"Thank you, monsieur, that will do very nicely." Joelle said, fingering the fabric on the shirt.

"That will be twenty francs, plus some sort of down payment for the clothes to be made."

Joelle paid the man forty francs, waited for him to box the clothes, then put the box under her arm and headed out. Alexei followed.

"Look, I'd still like to have dinner with you this week sometime, Joelle." He told her once outside the shop.

"I don't know if I'll be able to get away."

"He's a grown man, I'm sure he can handle himself for a few -"

"I have a job, Alexei, remember? A real and legitimate job, unlike you, and with jobs like that comes certain obligations, but I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"What's wrong, Joelle?" He asked quietly. "You usually don't snap at me so much."

She sighed and wrapped her gloved fingers around the back of his immense arm. "I'm sorry. This has been a very trying week. I'm tired and my judgment is impaired." She began to cross the street, and he followed. "Oh, by the by, what was the name of that costumer the opera house fired a couple years ago?" Joelle browsed through a fruit vendor's wares until she found some grapes.

"I worry about you, Joelle. You've run yourself ragged for a man who you say was so close as to be like family to you for many years... but Joelle, does he even remember you?"

"Of course he does, you big Russian. I taught him almost everything he knows." She paid the man for the bunch of grapes and started away from Alexei to continue her shopping.

"Henri Lorres," He called after her. "And calling me by my nationality is not a very good insult, by the way. Parisienne!"

She merely put her free hand in the air as a wave and continued through the market.

* * *

Erik opened the door to the closet and found, much to his amusement, a piano. Joelle's various blouses and skirts hung over it, skimming the keys. It was on a dolly, and easily rolled out into the room. He stared at it with some longing, touched the keys lightly with his fingertips, but would not play. No, he _could not_ play. Too many emotions were connected with his fingers, and if he allowed his hands to make those emotions audible, he knew he would be unable to bear it. He kicked the dolly and pushed the piano back into the closet, closing the doors tightly as though he were afraid it would come to life and jump across the room at him. Frustrated and emotionally stuck, Erik paced the room. Eventually he turned his attention to the book case, and found a copy of Beowulf, reclined on the only chair and began reading it. He had only read a few pages when Joelle unlocked the door and entered.


End file.
